


By Absence Defined

by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Sad, Secrets, Sherlock hides his feelings, surprise drug busts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-13 06:10:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lestrade springs a surprise drug raid on the residents of 221B, the team (and John) discover something about Sherlock that no one had expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Absence Defined

  
**By Absence Defined**   


John understood why Lestrade did it. It had to be irritating as hell, having Sherlock stealing evidence all the time. Still, he did wish the Detective Inspector wouldn’t pull a drugs bust every time he got fed up. Sherlock always got so worked up about it.

“Get out of my house!” Sherlock snarled.

“Greg,” Anderson called, walking into the room. “We found this inside the wall in his bedroom. He’d hollowed part of it out and created a nice little hiding place.”

He was carrying a polished wooden box.

Sherlock’s face twisted into a horrible look of alarm and rage at the sight of it.

“PUT THAT DOWN!” he thundered, lunging across the room, but two officers caught him by the arms and hauled him back.

“Nice,” Lestrade approved cheerfully. “Open it up.”

“ _LEAVE IT! IT HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS!_ ” Sherlock roared.

He looked almost demonic, his expression contorted into something terrible and desperate.

No one but John seemed to notice.

“Greg–” he started uneasily, worried about how upset Sherlock looked.

Anderson had already opened the box, however, and as John watched he pulled out a photograph. Lestrade and the others leaned in to look either at the contents of the box or at the photo.

Sherlock sagged a bit in the grip of the two policemen, apparently resigning himself to everyone seeing whatever was in the box, although his eyes were blanker and harder than John had ever seen them, like chips of grey-green ice in his face.

“She’s pretty,” Anderson commented. “Nice little bikini she’s got on.”

“Who is she?” Lestrade asked, craning over Anderson’s shoulder for a look, like everyone else.

Sherlock’s arctic reply stopped them cold.

“My wife.”

“What?” John blinked incredulously.

“You, a wife?” Sergeant Donovan demanded in reflexive scorn. “ _Had_ one? _You?_ If you’re married then why hasn’t anyone met this mystery wife? Did you brick her up in the attic, or something?”

Sherlock’s glare was so dark that several people actually recoiled.

“She was an operative with MI6,” said Sherlock, his voice coming out terse and clipped. “She was caught up in an operation gone bad. They never found her body.”

Appalled, frozen silence fell over the room. Donovan looked suddenly awkward, as though she were regretting her earlier words.

“When?” Lestrade managed, looking bewildered and confused.

“About a year before we met,” Sherlock responded curtly.

About a year before Sherlock and Lestrade first met, John thought queasily. And when they met, Sherlock was a hopeless junkie, slowly killing himself with drugs and self-neglect. 

_ Bloody hell. _

From the look on Lestrade’s face, the D.I. had made the connection as well.

“Christ, Sherlock,” he almost whispered. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Like a snake striking, Sherlock whirled on Lestrade with venomous fury.

“ _I don’t want your pity!_ ” Sherlock bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth, his tone pure vitriol. He looked beside himself.

John’s brain chose that moment to come to a horrible realisation.

“Oh, God,” he couldn’t stop the words pouring out of his mouth, they were out before he could catch himself, “she worked for Mycroft, that’s why you hate him, because he sent your wife in there to die.”

The moment John said it he wished he could take it back. Sherlock went silent and very, very still. John held his breath.

When Sherlock spoke, his voice was oddly quiet.

“Yes.” There was a shuddering breath. “She was the only person in the world who meant anything, and my brother’s _mistake_ cost Anneliese her life.”

The was another long, strained silence.

Everyone was just standing, completely stunned by what they’d just heard.

John cleared his throat.

“Greg. Do you think you’re finished here?”

“What? Oh, right.” Greg pulled himself together, looking shaken. “Yeah, I think we’re done here.”

“Anderson, I think you should put the photo back in the box,” John suggested carefully.

Anderson had been standing immobile, but he jumped at the reminder of what he was holding, and quickly put the photograph back in the box.

The Scotland Yard team packed up as quickly as possible, looking shocked. No one said anything. Lestrade looked like he would have liked to have said something to Sherlock, condolences maybe, but didn’t quite dare. As they left, Donovan gave Sherlock a long, considering look, like she’d never seen him before.

John firmly shut the door behind the lot of them.

When he turned around, Sherlock was closing the box. Statues had more expression.

John wished there was something he could say to make it better, but he had no idea what you were supposed to say when you found out that your best friend had been widowed, and clearly had never moved on past the death of his wife.

“Tea?” John asked instead.

Sherlock gave a wordless nod, his face pensive and impossible to read.

As John moved into the kitchen, he heard Sherlock’s footsteps move slowly up the stairs, and down the hallway towards his room.

  
  



End file.
